“Yes?” “I don’t know,” she said, clearly upset. “Your hair. I just don’t like it.” She’d said that the night before when I’d come back to the dorm with what she called my Sex Pistols hair. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just something I needed to do. After dinner, I’d borrowed bleach and clippers from Cara Svitt, and I’d shaved most of my head, leaving only a spiky patch up front, which I’d bleached a shocking blond. It was allowed. There were other kids at St. Bede’s with weird hair, but for some reason, Helen couldn’t handle it on me. I didn’t know why anyone would care, but people tended to freak out when you did something drastic to your appearance. They thought you’d gone crazy, but really maybe you’d been crazy all along, and doing something like that made you feel less crazy, giddy even, in control and out of control all at the same time. I didn’t feel like dealing with her comments, so I waited until she’d gone to the bathroom, and then I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my books, and headed out the door.
